


balancing of humors

by wehdile



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Micolash, Gen, Invertebrate Dissection, Micolash/Edgar If You Squint, Micolash/OC If You REALLY Squint, Pre-Canon, Schizophrenic Micolash, Slug Eating, Speculation on Godhood & Metaphysics, Vomiting, psychotic episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehdile/pseuds/wehdile
Summary: Phantasmal in his gropings Micolash could no more interact with the shore then a breeze could move a boulder — his will was strong but not absolute. Not in the face of this birth, caught between stages for his eyes and his eyes alone.Micolash seeks enlightenment through unconventional means.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	balancing of humors

Gnawing hunger. Watering eyes. Shaking hands. All needless distractions which culminated demanding attention somewhere behind Micolash. Easily ignored as always, as necessary for him to carry Mensis into the future. 

A minor adjustment of his finger pads on the forceps, however, was his undoing. Propelled by the firm push of his finger, the instrument flew head over end to slide off the table into waiting darkness beneath, the sudden clatter drumming against Micolash's well wrinkled forebrain. Wincing, he rose then promptly crouched in search. Just his luck; too dark to see. 

Forced to paw blindly at the stone for several arduous seconds of wasted time, Micolash finally noticed that candlelight danced off the wall. Of course. He _had_ a light source— had lit the wick not but a few hours ago with his very own hand.

“What was that saying?” Micolash mused aloud, retrieving the caged lantern to lower it to floor level where he joined it on one knee, peering into the gloom. “One will lose their own head if it were not attached to their shoulders? Ah but neck would make more sense…” In this fashion he continued muttering to himself, words that emerged from his throat a mere continuation of thought without end. All while he searched for the instrument in an unhurried, untroubled manner.

Perhaps he ought to write such thoughts down yet even as the idea occurred to Micolash it was replaced by continuous syllables, soft rantings to occupy the mind while the body retrieved the miscreant from its hiding place besides the table leg. He felt no rush for, after all, it was not as if his “specimen were on the cusp of rising from the dead, no,” murmured Micolash, settling back into his chair with, slightly dusty, forceps back in hand.

No, the three specimens laying before him on a blood-crusted silver tray were quite dead. Augur harvested from that curious Prospector which only tangentially resembled the Augur of Ebrietas in that they were both invertebrates. It was there the similarities ended, obvious to even the untrained eye that the amphibian, almost salamander like bodies, could not be parasites of Ebrietas. Already had he laid out several key points in the opened notebook placed adjacent to the tray, notes scrawled first fully across the page and then twisting, turning into the margins of additional material that could not be so insignificant as to be placed upon the next page.

He stared a time at his own notes, words shifting under their own discretion to rearrange into strange, new patterns which he lacked context for. _Yet._

Further classification was thus necessary. He readied a scalpel, blade freshly sharpened, its shadow cast long across the table (to pierce the Heavens, to peel back the Veil. _His_ work and his alone). Further _dissection_ was thus necessary. 

Tirelessly, Micolash pressed onward.

He learned much in a short span.

Even if transplanted immediately to a suitable host, the Augur were too underdeveloped to have ever survived. Their neonatal eye stalks, ruptured from the abrupt change in pressure, lay flat against the tray and such limpness persisted throughout the entire body. He searched in vain for any remnants of an optical cord, blunt fingernails used to sort through the mess until the tips were stained a medley of primary colors. Given a few more hours the final specimen, the most developed of the trio, may have survived long enough for vivisection or an experimental feeding.

For the sake of clarity Micolash turned focus onto this specimen, others discarded over the side of the table.

Dutifully, he noted that the manner in which it threatened to deflate into a pile of soft tissue at the merest prod. An indication that, despite such impressive length— 60 cm, perhaps a touch more with the extravagant frills which joined and extended past the stubby tail tip— the skeleton lacked ample calcium to support the structures within.

And oh, what wondrous structures lay within!

Organs of malformed origin, flesh discolored with splotches of pigment, erethism apparent in the haphazard way inflamed sinew connected to the interior of an anarchic mantle. Removing what appeared to be a stomach, Micolash drew his scalpel across the bloated organ and watched ichor pool out across the metal. Chunks of the dark chitin that were an exact match of its progenitor’s growing exoskeleton. As expected; Augur fed on the blood of the Great Ones and their Kin. However, this specimen’s mouth was...intriguing.

Intriguing enough that Micolash made a point to turn the slug over, pressing the scalpel’s side and spatula into the front facing orifice that might have once been a mouth. Now it was a mush of masticated flesh as if the Augur had chewed upon its own flesh at the very end (perhaps in a fit of instinct gone haywire? He couldn't wait to find out.)

Shifting in search of the radula, he instead found teeth. Small, sharp, conical in nature, and laid in three distinct rows which grew smaller towards the back of the miniscule throat. For holding onto flesh? No-- a tap to the tooth and a metallic _chink_ rang out— for holding onto chitin harder then steel. And, he concluded after a moment’s thought, for initially burrowing into the leviathans to seize hold of their tender flesh beneath.

”Wonderous intrincities, begging to be extracted,” he sighed and pressed forward with a slow vigor.

Soon his palms were stained with ink and blood that the smeared notes had almost become a near recreation of their subject. But he was not a romantic and did not care for this poetic quality. In fact, his only pause was when his hands began to fall away into darkness and thought turned to the dying candlelight. Old quickly replaced with the new, Micholash transferred the sputtering flame and drew the lantern closer.

In need of additional eyes (not the ones which pressed sightless against his skull), Micholash retrieved the microscope from beneath a pile of papers he had yet to grade. A magnificent device that allowed closer sight through the use of mirrors and light! Beneath the refracted lenses of glass the Augur’s components, supposedly senescent from the outside, squirmed and writhed. But they did not die yet did not live, no longer able to form a cohesive unit to be anything but unicellular creatures.

Rhythm overtook thought, the slow methodical pace of discovery in expedition unfurling itself before him. Cut, extract, catalogue. Cut, extract, catalogue. Cut, extract, catalogue. Steps known by heart, his hands undertake the motions of their volition until, suddenly, he is finished. There is no heralding trumpet to announce that he should cease, just a sensation of completion in his very core like a musical note extended far past its lifespan. And,

A knock at the door.

Peering over his shoulder, Micolash waited for the apparition to depart only to reinforce its presence in a second knock. Still he doesn’t rise, flexing the forgotten cramps roaming up his knuckles as the handle lifted and Edgar’s face peered through the crack. “Micolash?”

”Edgar.” Exhaustion lifted, he dug his heels into the stone and spun the chair around to face his favorite would be saboteur. “Has there been an incident with our newest prospect?” Referring to that troublesome prospector, Micolash idly wiped his hands on his cloak which were already encrusted with fluid anyway. Superficial vanity had no place at Mensis.

Hands folded behind his back, Edgar glanced down at the table with comment on the mess. “Are you feeling well? You’ve been here for nearly twelve hours. Not that I have been counting,” Edgar quickly amended, “but even the head of mensis requires sleep at some point.”

Another trait Micolash liked about Edgar. No perfunctory “sir” or “headmaster”, no sniveling that was oh so common among underlings. Just two academics on equal footing—though it would be remiss to categorize Edgar with the same level of arcane knowledge as himself, but close enough to count and he so rarely approved of _close enoughs_.

“Quite well.” Micolash swiveled to face him, propping up his chin with a hand. “Busy, busy with unpacking the arcane.” A plethora of ideas as to why Edgar had disturbed him swirled through his brain, waiting to be confirmed or denied by his next question: “What do you need?”

“Nothing.” Edgar strode over to the table and stood opposite Micolash, examining the sight of the table with mild interest. “Can’t a man speak frankly of his concern for a friend?”

Dear Edgar. A flutter stole through Micolash’s heart though it did not show on his face, and he chalked it up to lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of insight so precious he would cut men to shreds for it. Only Edgar, dear _sweet_ Edgar understood. Finally, a dreamy smile crept across Micolash’s face while his thoughts swirled nebulous as the stars outside, winking eyes piercing through the veil of absolute, total night that was the naked kosmos.

Soon, Micolash would know. His hands moved unbidden to slice a thin line down the dissected specimen... Soon. Soon.

Static across the table, noises without substance that wound around hands and fingers to confuse muscles. The scalpel slipped, blade sliding across his ignorant palm. “Hm? What was that?” He did not look up lest sight distract from observing the well of blood. It was (why?) imperative he observe the swell of iron deficient ichor with even the miniscule trace of color already lost to proceeding coagulation.

“Where did you get these specimens?” Edgar had appeared besides him as if from the ether, pressing a clean cloth into Micolash’s hand without comment.

Of course Edgar knew where the Agurs came from. Truly, he was asking from whom the specimens had been harvested from.“From our newest experiment.”

Edgar paused and though his expression was slight, the two dark pits of his moss green eyes shone clear. “The Tomb Prospector? The one who…?” Though not a particular revenant man, awe still crept through the undercurrent of his tone.

“The very same.” Micolash nodded, gaze dropping to the dissected specimen before him, an offering unto the altar of knowledge that was Mensis. “Like Rom before him.” A curl of his lip betrayed only a fraction of jealousy that Micolash quickly smothered and busied his uninjured hand with dragging over stacked papers. He should organize. “Unlike Rom, however, he is quite lucid.” Micolash indicated the small, leather bound journal at the bottom of the pile whose pages were all manner of disheveled, spine thoroughly broken.

“Raving into all hours of the night about an obsidian shore before an endless, starry ocean from which he claims, or is implied, that agurur originate from.”

That was a… _generous_ analysis of the increasingly disjointed entries, most recent of which had been dictated by Micolash as Simon’s fingers had all bust fused. He touched the leather, faint markings of claws left behind in his tussle to remove it from Simon’s grasp. In the transition, strangely, he seemed oddly protective of such vivid visions beyond sight or smell or taste or touch of mortal men. All ramblings that formed a complex puzzle even to a brilliant mind such as his. (Such quaint moments, while not paramount to research, were relaxing when shared with someone chosen by the Gods.)

Edgar's stiff expression, stiffer than typical, betrayed mental unrest which Micolash keyed into like a moth to a flame. "Blood vial for your thoughts?" he asked, leaning the chair dangerously far back to tip back his head and look his assistant in the eye.

"I mean no disrespect, but." Edgar paused, worried his bottom lip in a rare show of anxiety. "Is it wise to leave the Tomb Prospector unguarded?"

"Unguarded?" The chair's front legs hit the ground, palms bruised as they caught the table's edge. "Our Pthumerian...associates are watching over him.”

Hesitance in that following silence and Micolash let it hang, let Edgar dangle until he finally glanced over one shoulder for an explanation. Edgar fidgeted with his glasses, looking down at Micolash in the way a professor might look upon an ill informed student. “The Pthumerian worship the Old Ones. Who is to say their loyalties will stay with Mensis?”

“The Pthumerian are simple minded. Should an Old One manifest in our presence I dare say they would be more likely to stay and tend to it.” The anxiety of shifting loyalties no longer vexed Micolash as it did Edgar; all of their efforts were focused on cultivating an understanding of the Old Ones. He quelled further speech with a hand to Edgar's shoulder and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes no matter how much he practiced. "Should any insurrection occur, it will be swiftly dealt with. Worry not!"

Doubt shadowed the creases in Edgar's forehead, unmissable signs of aging. The same signs of age presented across his own countenance, new creases and folds and a sinking of the skin whenever he looked again in the mirror. An infusion of blood would solve the problem but at the cost of precious insight.

 _Fear the old blood._ Provost Williem had said that. Or perhaps not. He could not recall from where he had heard the phrase, wrinkled his nose in concentration. _Fear the old blood,_ cooed his treacherous brain, _inside you._

Oh.

Micolash placed a hand on his chest and the murmur of his heart answered. Inside him? Impossible. He had taken all necessary precautions to prevent contamination of the blood, of the precious folds beneath his skull. Their preservation was critical to the continuation of Mensis and beyond.

 _Beyond what?_ Whispered the treacherous other into the noise betwixt his ears. _Who is to ever say Mensis will succeed with the viles of the earth’s Blood pulsating throughout Yharhnam?_

Shuffling to his right Edgar gave a sniffle of disdain at the smell of decaying flesh, hand following swiftly to cover his lower face. “Quite a distinctive scent. Do you plan to preserve it for further study or…?”

Micolash's words trickle out in droplets, budding from a wet place in his throat. "Mhm. Of course." He picked through the gore, winnowing disparate organ from its fellows. "These are precious specimens. More can always be extracted."

Agurur... Such curious invertebrate, able to contact the Great Ones with not even a centralized nervous system insight. Struck with humor, Micolash chuckled aloud. Of course, how could he have not seen it before? Such valuable specimens were bound to have multiple purposes. Why shouldn’t it be he to discover another?

_Eat them._

“I have a hypothesis, Edgar.”

_Eat them. Put them in your mouth._

Besides him Edgar shifted, how long had he been standing there how long— “Oh?”

“Yes!” Clapping both hands together, Micolash threw the bloodstained cloth aside, dissection scissors called for his attention with their titillating gleam. “I have. A hypothesis, Edgar. That hypothesis is that the consumption of argur flesh will net certain arcane benefits previously unheard of.”

_In your mouth, in your mouth. Put them in. Hurry! Hurry! You don’t have time stop talking before your eyes, oh, your eyes are going. You’ll never be able to see if you don’t **hurry**._

He selected two pieces at random and tore it away, connective tissue and all. “Would you like to partake with me?”

“I don’t think—” Micolash has already pressed a piece of meat into Edgar’s palms, earning him a bewildered look as any protest died in his throat.

“Two sets of experiences are better than one.”

“You’re certain these samples aren’t volatile?” He rubbed the meat between his thumbs, an oily sheen beginning to collect in the crevices of narrow palms. “Your last experiment with Agrurs was, to be frank, .”

“Absolutely.” How easily the omission slipped off Micolash’s tongue to make room for a burst of ozone. Catching the meat between his teeth he stared expectantly at Edgar, fingers laced together and cradled against starchy folds of robe for if he did not, Micolash would be unable to stop his wicked hands from shoveling specimens down his throat; Edgar deserved the safe harbor of divine ingestion.

With a more tentative hand Edgar pressed the flesh to his lips then stopped to gesture at Micolash. “Headmasters first.”

He needed no more encouragement and swiftly bit into the inert meat, salt and copper bursting on his tongue in a kaleidoscope of sound which rang through his cavernous mouth and directly into his brain, his eyes his _eyes his eyes_ —

Then he swallowed and gazed expectantly at Edgar who, shockingly, had already consumed his portion. Watching Edgar wipe his hands off on a cloth produced from a pocket, Micolash swayed in place or perhaps the ground rocked beneath him. Nevertheless an undulating wave of ground rushed to meet him and he stepped back, knees knocking into the seat of his chair as he tumbled back into its reassuring embrace.

“Do you feel it, Edgar?” His hands found the grainy arms, tender skin of fingertips catching on unsanded whools of wood. “Do you feel the Kosmos?” Though no blood welled Micolash felt the microscopic tears as if they were chasms. He thought to make a note of this Agrur’s effects yet could not find a way to plant his feet properly, heels sliding on the wood floor. He did not recall having the floors waxed. “Do you feel the Kosmos?” he repeated, finding the hinge of his neck to turn and look at Edgar who sat on a new stool, hands folded over his lap.

The picture of perfection and control. Oh how Micolash hated, revered him in the space between inhale and exhale. How precariously he balanced on the head of a pin (which pin?) between being torn to shreds by Mensis and embraced by Mensis.

A dampness on his brow revealed a serious condition of significant perspiration, hand coming away damp as Micolash pushed back his bangs. “Micolash.” He looked up, blinking at the assortment of colors that could only belong to Edgar with the splash of dark yellow across the top. “Perhaps you should purge your stomach.”

Hands appeared in his view to settle over Micolash's, pale slime oozing between the thin fingers. He looked up to a concerned expression before shaking off Edgar’s hands, slime mysteriously vanished. A trick of the light?

“That will be quite unnecessary.” Could he not see how close Micolash was to a breakthrough, how he was about to catch the elusive light of the Great Ones in both hands? No, of course not. “I have never felt more invigorated. He brought both hands up to his mouth, lowered a finger to worry at the skin with his teeth. Not a soul but he could see so clearly what was necessary, all others—including Edgar— seeing only shadows cast upon the wall.

For that reason alone, Micolash had been chosen to bring victory of the people to Yharhnam.

A pity he could not bring Edgar with him.

“You should still sit,” insisted Edgar and Micolash realized he had stood up within the last few seconds and now swayed slightly, back and forth. Although his body experienced only an acute tremor, the quake jolting through Micolash's skull eclipsed sight in a bloom of blood from the vein capillaries of both eyes. _All eyes,_ Micolash amended as hitherto unfelt pressure released within his cranium. Beneath the bone.

Oh dear.

Both knees hit the ground, instruments sent clattering across floorboards in a last ditch fling of an arm to catch the world tilting out of control. It was not blood which pooled from his eyes, all of his eyes eye eye eyes burning eyes blinded eyes of blood and stars and bursting supernova—

All physical sensation (touch, sight, smell, audio, taste) snapped to a infentisible point, rushing out of him if there could even still be a _him_ to be a vector for this, this— this shining sun. It bent away from him with the shyness of a coy flower biding a butterfly near, beating into a vertex which lacked a direction other than one directly through the cluster of nerves that had foolishly called itself Micolash.

The unknown sky folded concave to convex, resolving into a recognizable horizon bordered by the infinite kosmos on one side and dark, inky waters beneath. Or were they one in the same? Impossible to say when the twinkling lights above reflected seamlessly across the water’s surface.

Ghostly sensations of touch prickled nerves on both palms, rough hewn wood against the whorls of fingerprints. Though he tried, ached, to move and examine his palms or kneel down to touch the ground— obsidian, he realized, glossy and jagged and forever— his limbs remained locked in place. _If_ there were even limbs to strain for such weight of combined meat and bone barely registered.

He could not discern for how long he stood there, time a meaningless tick of chronological events which had no purpose here. At some point change occurred. Where obsidian met onyx water, rippled burbled to life with a surfacing space.

For a moment it bore resemblance to an ordinary rock and then that moment passed as wet, jaundiced eyes opened down the length of its rocky carapace. And then it stood and revealed itself to be a creature half formed, a budding embryo of human and inhuman with mottled limbs of grey crags that formed an almost...segmented appearance.

In that moment, Micolash would have given all of Mensis just to _touch_ it.

The two main eyes rolled, struggling to focus, almost loose in their sockets, the entire body shuddering to remain upright for the hunch of its posture spoke to the weight of its transformation, the segments of changed skin to chitin. Oh, to drive a pick beneath them, dissect them, sample them… But he had no fingers to itch, no skin to scratch.

Phantasmal in his gropings Misolach could no more interact with the shore then a breeze could move a boulder — his will was strong but not absolute. Not in the face of this birth, caught between stages for his eyes and his eyes alone.

Sweat broke out across a nonexistent forehead as the creature, the man Micolash amended after a look between the skewed legs, finally settled his roving eyes on the presence that was Micolash.

Then _all_ eyes settled on Micolash, the clarity of sight behind the legion of distorted pupils pinning him as if a live bug in a specimen box. He had no skull to feel pressure building within nor eyes to burst like fruit turned rancid at a single sweep in the sun of an entity he had only begun to categorize. Even with fright bordering on frenzy passing through strained synapses, awe took flight at the enormity of what he was witnessing. 

Divine insight gleamed through a keyhole he was not meant to be crouched before, a hitherto hidden observer in what would surely mean leaps and bounds for his research.

And like any discovered intruder, he was now to be dealt with.

Eternity yawned above, kaleidoscope colors splitting a seam open where there had only been sky. Multiple seams in fact, gossamer threads stretched tight as something pawed against the fabric of a fabricated sky. Rom, in all her vacuous nature, could never have sustained this. What precisely this was failed to coagulate in Micolash’s bleeding forebrain. It tried to form, burst, tried to form, burst again until nothing could shield him from the intrigue of the kosmos.

Points of stars of eyes of stars coalesced against that velvet, straining background—

_Plop._

In an almost comedic disruption of this joyous singularity, something dropped off the embryonic Old One to writhe in the waters. An Augur, boiling alive in the crossfire, regurgitating fresh blood whilst it died in agony.

He felt, in the briefest of manners, for that little invertebrate for were he a physical thing to burn he would certainly be burning now, curious gossamers pushing into empty space, probing for him and finding Micolash in the same instant. The stars became eyes all moving as one and Micolash fancied that he would not have screamed even as empty space yawned and torrents of what he had always imagined insight tasted of flooded in.

Sickly saccharine sweetness tinged with a tang taste of uncooked piquant.

It rose in his throat.

Ah— Bile. Not enlightenment.

A terrible crash, heaving up the luminous mixture of his own bile and what little his stomach could digest, a luminous lumpy pile that, strangely, smelled of brine.

Even with his insurmountable wit, Micolash studied the pile blankly, empty stomach churning in threat of another purge... A roaring void of sound to his left, a feature that bothered him none despite indicating a blown eardrum. With time, the wound would heal. The body was only temporary. The _mind_ , however, remained paramount and so long as his precious folds remained lubricated, Micolash had nothing to fear.

Pale shapes in the suggestion of an appendage floated into view, wavering too and fro as if heated from beneath by an unseen warmth. Micolash reached out to wave them away only to collide with reality, pallid columns of flesh connected and disappearing behind a plane of rippling white only half realized to be cloth as they drew Micolash from the floor to a chair. They being Edgar, resolving from a mosaic of color and form to a concerned face, eyebrows pinched together in worry.

“Micolash? Sir?” A hand waved before his face, the motion alone drawing another wave of nausea through Micolash. He dry heaved without fear of overturning his stomach, secure in the knowledge that his near divinity (so close at hand, within reach) will protect him. The story cannot end without him, it _must_ come to fruition with him at the helm.

There is no option for failure.

Somehow, with the weight of so many on his mind, Micolash found his body deposited in a chair and a cold cloth draped across his forehead. He slapped at the fabric only to pry it away with trembling, pinched index and thumb. Edgar's worried expression swam into view with features warped, pinched by a giant hand at irregular intervals.

He slapped an incoming hand away, drawing the residual insight into him with a desperate hunger of a receding conclusion.

The initial rush had, abated. He had peeled back a sanguine scab to bring forth a trickle of truth already fading. A glimmer of a concept remained burned into his eyes, his eyes on the inside. Blown and unevenly dilated pupils squalled for meaning.

Micolash clutched at his chest, ache of rotten unfair loss blooming, taking root. He would not glimpse such sights again. Not until…

Blood red moon. An eye of It lurking at the periphery eternal. It had seen them and now here he sat, closer to piercing the veil then ever before. (There was no question to his worthiness, no doubt eking on the fringes of his mind. He would go madder before he allowed such transgressions against his own work). Just out of reach.

For now.

"Are you well?" Agitation clipped Edgar's tone now that the initial concern had worn off. "Practical applications aside, your brazen disregard for your health vexes me. Daily." Micolash slung his gaze in Edgar's direction and blinked until the undercurrent of realities settled back into their respective tributaries.

"I'm _more_ then fine." He stood, swaying directly into Edgar who- of course- caught him with spindly arms. "That practical application turned out to be quite illuminating." Emphasis placed upon the last syllable, he seized Edgar by both shoulders and pushed until they stood an arms length apart. "Secrets of the kosmos revealed to me in the eye of a hemic crater. Nothing everlasting but transient as legion."

Edgar stared and placed one hand on Micolash's elbow, pushing away one hand and then the other where they swung down as a pendulum to Micolash's side. "Perhaps you should go to the infirmary. Are you certain you've...recovered to a satisfactory level?"

He saw caution but not disbelief in Edgar's steely gaze. Perhaps there was hope for the greater masses of humanity yet, though he would not be holding his breath when the time came for ascension.

"I'll detail it over dinner in my office. Of course you'll join me." With the sickly pallor of lingering nausea Micolash walked, staggered, to the door and opened it with no reservations of leaning on the warped, rotten planks. As with many things in Mensis, improvements begged to be implemented from every crack and crevice.

"...Very well." Resignation bled across fine edges of concession as Edgar made to leave, hint of interest manifest in a brazen hand laid over Micolash's wrist. "Do not over exert yourself. What would Mensis do without its grand Headmaster?" Then he slipped into the darkness of the stairwell as he, both of them, were destined to slip beyond the veilof beastly idiocy and folly.

Micolash closed the door.


End file.
